Hiking, Throwing Rocks at My Girl and her Gay Dog

The Big Hike

Like one of these “burning-man” spirolina wheat-grass California Fruiters, I have engaged in the positive pursuit of hiking. Taking positive actions is not natural to me. Every cell in my body recoils in horror from Whole Foods, Yoga, and writing Thank You Notes. Through gritted teeth is how I behave like a normal person. People look away when I say “Please” and “Thank You” because my gums are bleeding from strain.

It is with this mammoth effort that I started Hiking. I even hate the word. A “Hike” sounds like an implement that Vlad the Impaler used to widen the orifices in his victims before kababbing their ass on his front lawn. If it was up to me I would never leave my apartment. I perform maniacal figure eights between the kitchen, the toilet, my computer and the TV. Enclosure does not bother my mental state. I have never been subject to “cabin fever.” In fact, I thrive on the fever. It’s like a friend that visits from the mountain to tell eerie tales with warped proportions. My apartment is my fortress of solitude. It isn’t until someone from the “outside” rings the bell that I realize I’ve slid off my rocker. The visitors see my halcyon eyes and keep the door in their sights in case they need to escape. That’s when I realize that I have not been normal: I’ve been using the cutting board as a plate, that I’m wearing soiled long johns and a fur cap, it isn’t Monday after all, it’s Thursday, I’ve guzzled the gallons of Coke Zero, it’s been so long that I’ve washed my coffee cup that there are fossils at the bottom of the mug, my teeth are smooth and clean, not because I brushed them, but because I’ve been ceaselessly grinding. So to keep me regular, I decided to hike.

Hiking is the next best thing to “not exercising.” Although it’s true that you have to go “up” hills, there is no “running” involved. And you can stop anywhere to “enjoy” the scenery. Last week I took my girl to Devil’s Canyon. It’s amazing to me that there are still pockets of nature around Los Angeles at all. I’m surprised that the asphalt barons and carpet baggers haven’t overrun every inch of this arid wilderness. It’s wild, one minute you’re exchanging gun fire on the Ronal Reagan freeway and then bam--you plunge into nature.

I let my girl bring her dog George on the trip. I felt kind of sorry for the poor bastard. Not only does he live in a studio apartment, but I steal his mother every night. All the way to Devils Canyon I was annoyed because George is one of those dogs that let’s his pink carrot slide out of the sheath constantly. As he sat in the back his organic meat whip was touching my back seat the whole way. It was pointed and glistening and throbbing and threatening all the way around. My girl happily claims that her dog is a virgin even though she is not. The whelp is 10 years old. I told her that his carrot trick is due to the fact that he’s “back up.” But My Girl does not want him to have sex. This matter is perplexing to me. But now that I think on it, I think her dog is Queer. Yep, her dog stayed a few nights on the ranch at Broke Back Mountain. He doesn’t hump legs and whimpers around other male dogs.

At the trailhead we met a large woman from the area. She was scowling at a sign that proclaimed that condominiums were going to be erected soon. Apparently the carpet baggers have found out about Devil’s Canyon. The woman was upset because the Yuppie Catacombs were going to block her view of the surrounding scenery. She huffed up the hill carrying her stomach like a wheelbarrow. She was the last of the “rural types” in this area. Los Angles is so human infested that its fat gut hangs over its belt and will smother out what little “cowboy” remnants are out there near Simi Valley.

On the hike we could see signature of last year’s fires on the charred bark of the trees. The soil is sandy because the whole area was submerged under the ocean 60 million years ago. Sage has overrun the place and there’s a sweet smell in the air. When we came to a stream, My Girl’s dog tried not to get wet. Her dog is definitely a bitch. My girl tried to stop him from drinking the water, and I shouted at her, “That’s why your dog’s queer. You mother him too much. God damn, he’s a dog. Dogs can eat pure plutonium and shit steel rivets. Nothing bothers them, that’s why they smell each other’s asses.” My girl carried him over the stream anyway.

After walking awhile my girl disappeared. I turned around and saw her trying to hide behind a bush. The effort was ludicrous because she’s as black as coal and wearing bright yellow clothes. There was no way for her to blend into the desert scenery. So I picked up rocks and threw them at her. I wasn’t trying to hit her, just letting the rocks land “near” her. She’s no Indian. Somehow we got lost. We found ourselves hopping fences and walking alongside the freeway. My Girl cursed me loud enough so I could hear her mean phrases over the Semi-trucks blowing past us. Then she slipped on the embankment and I thought, “Heh-heh, that was God punishing you woman.” Finally we made it back to the car. We ransacked a Seven Eleven and went home. That night, I checked every square inch of my body for ticks.

I don’t spellcheck.